Inhuman
by Sterenyk Strey
Summary: A cakewalk mission turns into a freakish nightmare for John Sheppard. Question is, will he survive his horrific ordeal? If so, at what cost? Even more so, as what? Critter!John. Shep whump/team angst. Halloween tale. Enjoy if you dare! Muhahaah! XD
1. Chapter 1

**INHUMAN**

A/N - posting 7 chapters daily bar one day, my leeway for last minute tweaking, most likely Sat, though Russian roulette being what it is... Final chapter will be posted by Halloween. Yes, it's a horror. Fair warning! Not a death fic, mind. I don't ever do those, perish the thought. Shudder... :O

That was an instruction! And order! Shudder! Why aren't y'all shuddering? Read, already! LOL

My thanks go to **shepsgirl72** for being my infinitely patient, unflagging beta, though I messed with this big time since, so blame me not her for any tpyos, speling missteaks and general slapdashery. :-D

My thanks also go to **joaniexjony**, who set me straight re haggises. I had no idea apart from partaking in one once, when my dad came home from the Scottish highlands with a dead one slung over his shoulder... ;-D

Spoilers: Search & Rescue, The Seed and Sunday.

Well, on with the tale!

oooOOOooo

"Remind me just one more time, Sheppard. Exactly why are we trudging up a mountain? Eh?"

John rolled his eyes, and turned to his pissy, flagging team mate without missing a beat as they all marched along the rugged, mountainous terrain prevalent on M45-937 aka Kemmia, a newly discovered sister planet to New Lantia. Woolsey had suggested touching base with the Kemmians, and John had cheerfully agreed it would be downright unneighborly if they didn't. Problem was, Kemmia was a tad further away from the sun, and a more than a little chilly climate-wise. This planet was also damp and overcast, and they were constantly hitting freezing fog patches, making visibility poor, or in his case, poorer. Wearing shades didn't help any, but there was no wriggling out of it. Condensation trickled down the back of his neck. John wished he'd brought his long-sleeved, turtleneck fleece shirt instead of just his regular shirt and tee. He was beginning to feel ill-equipped even for this, a cakewalk mission after a meet'n'greet executed flawlessly and incident free by Lorne and his select team.

Despite the temperature being in the mid to low fifties even at the height of summer, John noticed that Rodney McKay's face was ruddy, and he was sweating profusely. So, what else was new? At least he wasn't complaining he was sickening for something. Exertion plus rampant hypochondria, a sorry-assed combo in Rodney's case. John vaguely remembered Carson Beckett politely suggesting that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on with Rodney when he had declared himself exhibiting symptoms per the Case Of The Hives.

John had just been administered the phage while restrained in the infirmary, and had subsequently gone into agonizing convulsions. Not that Rodney had stolen his thunder or anything, but the man'd unwittingly distracted the doctor when he himself had been in need of close observation. Thankfully, Ronon had his back. John had felt his muscles twinge then contort as they launched themselves into a full-scale assault upon his rapidly jerking body. Apparently he'd gone into v-fib, and Beckett had called for a crash cart. The good doctor and his trusty staff had brought him back from the brink yet again. He'd gone on to crash his jumper into the tower housing the tendril-toting, Keller-hijacking baby hive ship, and had eliminated the threat to his beloved Atlantis at minimal cost to himself and others. Just another impaling and yet another stay in his home from home. No big deal, as Ronon would say.

"Seriously, we've been trudging for miles, and I've yet to spot a single downhill!"

John struggled in vain to keep an amused expression off his face.

"Buck up, McKay. How about a little gratitude? These good people have offered us an endless supply of melony things, though for some reason 'beetroot' comes to mind."

"Beetroot? They look nothing like - Oh, funny har har. Let's all get in a dig at the hot, sticky lobster man." Rodney tutted, then mumbled something about dumb jocks.

"Did you really say 'melony'?"

The two young marines with them nudged each other, but at a glare from their CO, even from behind his dark sunglasses, they chose not to join in the banter.

"They consider them to be weeds, Rodney," Beckett piped in, "and would be happy for us to clear some land by taking maybe three quarters of it away. That's worth a little discomfort." Beckett, however, didn't look convinced. His dimples barely manifest themselves. He dabbed at his forehead with a turtle print handkerchief, reminding John once more that he should've worn his turtleneck. Damn.

"Oh, joy. My cup overfloweth." McKay looked around in disgust at the endless fields of round, black objects, and narrowed his eyes. "Yes, they do look remarkably melon-like, if not pumpkin-like. On tendrils."

"We could clear five-sixths of it instead, McKay. That should be right up your alley."

"Lowest form of wit, Sheppard."

"Pot/kettle, McKay."

"Unlike you, I subscribe to irony not sarcasm. And, of course, pathos."

John shook his head, and snorted. As they trudged inexorably onwards, he observed how the plants grew up and over bushes and trees, forming gloomy caverns either side of the meandering gravel path they had taken. Tendrils reached out like clawed fingers, and he visualized them scrabbling towards him, whipping about his head and body, hell-bent on impaling him. He almost wished he'd come armed with a spritzer full of Round Up.

"Tendrils… " John repeated with a shudder. He hunched his shoulders.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

"I'm good, Carson," he replied wearily. He gave a non-committal shrug.

"You having a wee bit of trouble, son?"

"No, it's - never mind." John rubbed his left side. Beckett gave him a knowing look, and scanned him up and down, thus warning him that he would be watching him like the proverbial hawk for any signs of flagging. John straightened his back, gripped his P90 with newfound yet ill-gotten vigor, and winced at the pull on recently healed scars. Two impalements and a thrashing. All within a few weeks of each other. He'd received two black eyes from the latest offworld skirmish that had put half his team in the infirmary. Teyla with a slashed Achilles tendon, and Ronon with two broken wrists. Without being able to wield a single knife, Ronon was out of commission, as was Teyla, though she put on a brave front, and even declared serenely how it gave her the opportunity to spend more time with Torren. Ronon merely grunted.

"Seriously, I could do a roaring trade with these back on Ear- back home, selling fancy black pumpkins for Halloween, which is, may I remind you, mere days away? Beats orange hands down. It'd be all the rage! I could finally retire and write my memoirs. Er, are we there yet?"

Again, John turned to give McKay 'The Look', but remembered he was wearing shades. He rested one hand on the butt of his P90, and mouthed, "Zip it," with accompanying gesture.

"Shutting up now." McKay zipped his lips shut.

John glanced over to Beckett. He looked just as exhausted as McKay. He felt bad about not offering to carry the medical kit, but he was still recovering from that last supposed cakewalk mission, the one that put half his team out of commission, and almost jeopardized his ability to lead another. No broken limbs, though his vision suffered for about a week, which had him terrified for a while that he wouldn't regain his 20/30 acuity.

"Wish Ronon were here," said Beckett, his voice sounding pained.

"Same." John eyed up the kit. "I'd carry it, Carson," he added, sensing a pained expression crossing his face, "but, y'know - " and he thumbed over his shoulder towards his back. The last bad guys had taken bludgeons to all of them, but as leader, he had borne the brunt of the assault as he struggled to deflect blows to the rest of his team, especially Rodney, their main target of interest. At least he was back on his feet. The two marines, Rozenberg and Sorensen, were lugging more than enough equipment, for the most part crates of C4, detonators, fertilizer, weed killer and tough-as-nails grass seed.

"Aye, lad. I know you would if you could. It's the thought that counts." Carson smiled fondly, finally revealing his dimples.

"What if they stain?"

"Whuh?" John rounded on Rodney.

"The melonumpkins. Of course, it wouldn't affect you, Colonel Cool, with your Men In Black garb. What's with the sunglasses?"

"Unlike you, I make this look good." John dipped his shades, and shot Rodney the coolest look he could manage with two black eyes.

"Oh, hardy har har. Ouch! That still looks bad, Sheppard, though I see there's some yellow and red appearing at the edges. The rest still looks green and blue. At least most of the black's gone, eh? By the way, why do you wear so much black these days? What are we doing in gray? We should be in camo. What's with the SGC? Just about every planet we visit looks like Canada. We should be in green. Lincoln green! Like Robin Hood! And his Merry Men! Of course, that would make Teyla 'Maid Marian' - "

"Not wearing tights, McKay," John growled, then stopped walking, tilted his head to one side in thought. He stared at McKay, incredulous. "Melonumpkins?" He waved his arms sideways. "I thought I'd trained everyone not to name anything?" The two marines snickered, then drew in their lips, eyes comically wide. John struggled not to think of the poor centurions in The Life Of Brian at the mention of Biggus Dickus. He turned away from the pair and broke into a grin, and considered asking them if they found it 'wisible', though he didn't think he could keep enough of a straight face to carry it off. He was tempted to proclaim, 'Welease Wodney!' If he could only compose himself. Double damn.

"Slow on the uptake. You're as bad as Conan. They must have mashed your brain cell when they beat you," McKay mumbled.

John grimaced.

"Rodney? Can we drop it? I'm feeling pretty good these days. I got off lightly for a change. Anyway, it was your half a brain cell they wanted. Remember? Extract it and inspect it under a microscope?"

Yeah, he had come off relatively unscathed. Two black eyes, not too many bruises where they'd pummeled him, and - nothing broken! Yep, the Sheppard luck was finally changing.

"And crap at snappy comebacks," McKay mumbled once more, though much quieter.

John chose not to respond.

Ten minutes on, and although it wasn't exactly a 'downhill', the steep incline had lessened from forty degrees to some twenty degrees, to reveal rolling, mist-shrouded hills covered in gorse and heather. It was pleasant, in a moody sort of way.

"Looks a wee bit like Scotland."

John spun around. Beckett had a dreamy expression on his face. The man drew in a deep lungful of cold, moisture-laden air, and exhaled with a sigh.

"You roamin' in the gloamin' up there, Carson? Home on the range?" John tapped his temple, but he made sure he flashed an empathic smile.

"Och, aye, John. On the bonnie banks o' Clyde. Where the deer and the antelope play."

"Wi' a lassie by his side, no doubt. Where never is heard a discouraging word. The jagged outcrops, rainclouds of Doom and cloying smog were probably your first clue. And - I do believe… "Rodney snapped his fingers, and in an uncharacteristic burst of energy, ran towards something skittering in the undergrowth, "… I just spotted a haggis. A living, breathing haggis. That or a freakin' tribble."

Said haggis slash freakin' tribble, a puffball on legs with dark, spiky fur, scurried across the dirt path right in front of them. It turned, and gave them a startled look before edging nearer to them. John thought the little guy looked kind of skunk-like.

"Pepe Le Pew."

"What?"

"I just named it." John flashed his patent wicked, lop-sided grin. "Hey!" he added with a shrug of mock contrition.

"Funny. Not. Watch out Sheppard! I think it's after you! You should wear a hat in case it's mating season. Ooh! There's another one right behind you, about to hump your leg!"

Sheppard did a whirl and a hop, and his hand flew to his holster.

"Scat!" he squealed. The creature squealed back, reminding him of Ellia in her last feisty moments, drew its legs in, and rolled downhill like a tire, chittering to itself.

"Think you just told it you had a headache. Does that thing have brakes?"

As if in response, the creature stuck out its rudder-like tail much like that of a duck-billed platypus, effectively interrupting its forward momentum. The thing looked like it had stunned itself. It shook its head, then disappeared amongst the tangle of melonumpkins. John chuckled at Pepe's inane antics.

"Now that's what I call camouflage!"

"Then you should be right at home in there, Sheppard."

"Now, now, Rodney. Give the lad a break."

"Huh. Just because I was winning. Seriously, are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No!"

"So, Carson, you feel at home, too?"

"Aye. I do, lad. Despite the fact that wee creature can't possibly be a haggis as they actually only have three legs, and can only go round in circles, not roll downhill." Carson acquired a wistful look. "Y'know, perhaps there's fishin' to be had. Anyone care to go fishin' with me?"

At that, John looked at McKay, whose eyes clouded over. They might even had teared up. John was at a loss for words, and he let his eyes beg McKay to change the subject. Thankfully, he caught on, though his jaw dropped, and his bottom lip quivered slightly.

"How about hunting? You can skin the whatever-it-is, and make yourself a lovely sporran."

The mention of hunting was too close to fishing. Not exactly the distraction John had in mind, so he pitched in.

"It's a… uh… haggistribble." John winced.

"You suck at naming things, Sheppard. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, but, melonumpkins? Why not pumpkinelons? Have you tried opening one yet? Do you know if it's more melon-like or more pumpkin-like? Might make all the difference." John winked at Beckett.

"Er, no. I bet they carve great, though." With that, McKay bent down to the nearest one, sliced into it with his k-bar, and was duly hit in the face by a spray of dark juice. So much for being the new Halloween fad. The stuff most likely stained, too.

John expected McKay to be pissed with him in a don't kill the messenger kind of way. He waited for the barrage. He should have known. McKay's stomach had taken his brain hostage. McKay was licking his lips.

"Tastes great! Like a daiquiri! I love those. No, wait! I've just had a terrible thought. Are there lemons in daiquiris? Oh, nononononono! I've been drinking them on and off for years! Decades even! Maybe it works like a slow toxin? I've been committing suicide! Slow, agonizing, suicidal suicide... No wonder I have sweaty palms and palpitations. My mouth is going numb." Rodney fumbled all eight fingers around his lips. "I'm bubbloosing the blablility to spleak!" His eyes widened and rolled like the dreary hills and dales of Kemmia.

John chuckled. Carson grinned. Even the marines let out long-suppressed snorts.

"From your mouth to God's ears, McKay… Death by daiquiri, huh?"

"Beat the sorry mainstay, chocolate. How you Americans can stand Hersheys, I'll never know. Stuff tastes like soap."

"My vote's for death by single malt. A wee dram at a time."

"Mine goes for death by Guinness and a Cuban cigar. So, you going for a prolonged death, Carson?"

"Life is a prolonged death, John."

"Always look on the bright side, eh? Well the bright side of death by Hersheys would be taking it intravenously rather than orally. Which brings me to cake or death… "

John was enjoying the banter. Despite the cold and damp, the absence of two of his team-mates, the interminably bleak tendril-ridden terrain, plus a tired, aching body, this was turning into a pretty good day.

oooOOOooo

A/N - Bwah! Silly boy. You iz in my eevle clutchiz now. There's no such thing as a 'pretty good day'... XD

oooOOOooo


	2. Chapter 2

"Did we seriously have to leave the puddlejumper behind? Ooh! Ooh! Look! There's a pterodactyl nest down there we could have landed in!" Rodney hopped on the spot.

"That's not very Scottish, Rodney. Anyway, it looks like a crater. Not exactly the best landing site."

"Well, albatross then." He folded his arms in a typical McKay huff.

"Try pheasant."

"Not turtles? Anyway, it looks empty. A perfect landing spot for a jumper. How come Lorne didn't spot it?"

"It was most likely covered at the time in that cloying smog of yours, Rodney."

"Whatever. Seriously, Carson, do you honestly believe that - "

John found himself tuning out the banter. He didn't want the doc to know it, but he was feeling drained after all. He'd pushed to get back to full active duty. No bones were broken, and he didn't want to let anyone down. He had two marines looking up to him for guidance, and he couldn't afford to let them think he wasn't up to leadership. Rozenberg and Sorensen were good kids. Kids? Holy shoot! They were both in their late twenties. Maybe it was old age creeping on. John rolled his neck to fix a crick in it. It cricked.

The sun was up there somewhere, but even at mid morning, it hadn't yet broken through the eerie mist. Maybe it never did. He couldn't take his shades off, as his eyes were still too sensitive, but the condensation was beginning to irritate them, making them sting. He wiped his shades on his shirt sleeve, and slapped them back on. He almost missed the approach of their escorts. Yep, getting old.

Lorne had done the meet'n'greet thing with these people, and had reported how peaceful and pleasant they were, even if they were a little cheesily renfesty to look at, how open they were for trade, and how desperate they were for anyone to help them remove the rampant growth of what they called The Weed. Sheppard had joked about trading for weed, earning a glare of reprimand from Woolsey, and puzzled looks from his Pegasus team mates. Woolsey had wanted to send Doctor Beckett just to check them over, and as Teyla and Ronon were still out of commission, he'd sent Sheppard, Beckett and McKay and two strapping marines.

As their escorts approached, Sheppard saw they were short, stocky, broad-chested mountain people, built for the terrain. They were fair-haired and pink-skinned almost to a man. They all sported kilts, vests and thongy sandals. He glanced at Beckett, whose eyes were wide in disbelief and, very possibly, rapture. Must be the kilts, John conceded, though their wavy line plaid and in-your-face polka dots made the kilts look more like some trippy tic-tac-toe grid. Braveheart? Not so much.

Sheppard suspected the Kemmians' lung capacity was optimal for the elevation, but he would leave those kinds of observations for the anthropologists. What was needed was some further diplomacy, then action, but, boy, he felt tall and dark and skinny next to these people. He stood head and shoulders over most of them, and was much slimmer by just under a third than each and every one of them. What with the hair and ears, he stood out as usual.

Even Rodney and Carson didn't look out of place. Come to think of it, neither did Rozenberg and Sorensen despite their extra bulk. He wasn't sure he cared for how the Kemmians eyed him up and down with syrupy smiles on their faces, but what else was new? This was Pegasus after all. He shrugged off a feeling that something might not be quite right. Then again, he was probably projecting the last bad guys who beat him to a pulp, and gave him two lasting shiners. They'd had syrupy smiles too.

"Welcome to Kemmia! I am Derrith Horiak. This is Derrith Muwik, Derrith Splanek and Derrith Bink." Horiak duly indicated three other men, who like him, sported a long matching cape and some incongruous gangsta bling, which possibly denoted their esteemed office, whatever the heck a derrith was. All four men bowed demurely. The rest of the entourage was armed with mini Ronon-style stunners. Wow. Maybe he'd finally find out who manufactured those things. Maybe it was these guys. Now, that would be a sweet trade.

Still, hadn't Lorne reported the Kemmians were peaceful? Then again, he himself was peaceful. He just so happened to be a walking arsenal. John chose not to be alarmed. Horiak and the other derrith dudes showed them the way to their village, rolling their hands in their general direction, and bowing occasionally. The fifteen or so stunner-wielding Braveheart wannabes marched as one, their demeanor relaxed as they launched into their own banter. John heard the occasional chuckle, and smiled to himself. Camaraderie was universal, he guessed. That gave him something concrete to hang onto.

John's eyes started to sting even more, and he felt a blinder of a headache coming on. He realized too late he'd been wrong to push to get back to active duty, but light duty drove him nuts. He took off his shades to pinch the bridge of his nose to gather himself, and wipe at his eyes. The condensation was beginning to build up, so he tucked the sunglasses into a pocket in his tac vest, blinking several times to allow his eyes to adjust to the only marginally less dim light. Horiak turned to smile at him, and perhaps to initiate a conversation, when he uttered a short choking sound, paled even more, and stiffened. He stared at John with a look of horror on his face.

"Uh, yeah. About that. I had a fight with a door and the door won." He shrugged boyishly.

"I see," replied Horiak, who started a creepy round of Chinese whispers, first with the other derrith dudes, and then with the guards, who hefted their weapons. Something had changed. John felt tension mount, and watched in alarm as the guards moving in to flank them. John put up his fist, and thankfully, both McKay and Beckett both stopped in their tracks. The two marines were on the alert, put their hands on their firearms menacingly, and turned to face their aggressors.

This was downright awkward. They were outnumbered. What had changed? John tensed up. So, he'd been in a fight. No big deal. He thought to sit down with them, let them get to know him and his team. They were almost on top of their village in any case. John decided to carry on walking, very slowly. He would have to try to bluff his way out of whatever shifted these Kemmians into defensive mode.

_Lorne? No alarm bells? Peaceful and pleasant? What the hell changed here? What gives? _

A village of tents - no, more like tepees - came into misty view. Horiak snapped his fingers, and the guards raised their stunners, training them on John alone. He instantly raised his 9-mil direct at Horiak, who flaunted himself as the alpha derrith, and scanned his P90 at the other three. McKay and Beckett both raised their hands into the air. The two marines scanned three-sixty with their P90s. Yep. It was official. A cakewalk mission had just headed south on an express.

"Okay, seems we have a situation here. You asked for our help. You had no problem with our scout team. What's changed?"

Horiak flinched away from the 9mil, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hatred. He spat at John, who wiped the spittle from his face onto his rolled up shirt sleeve, his weapons still aimed threateningly.

"Take it easy! We can work this out! I don't know what I did to offend you, but we can resolve this, and still help each other out. What say we sit down, and discuss this, like two trading partners who need each other. Huh? How about it?" Trading partners. He hesitated to say 'friends'.

"You offend me. You offend us all."

"Whuh? How?" John ground out. He jiggled both his guns in frustration, and shook his head without taking his eyes off Horiak. He knew Rozenberg and Sorensen had his back, and Carson would automatically be at the center of their huddle, protected.

"I repeat. How."

"By existing!"

By now, some hundred villagers had gathered around. John was already self conscious, the focus of attention, but this was ridiculous. He'd done nothing, and even if he alone had unwittingly offended these people somehow, there was no reason for everyone to step into the argument, charge into the fray. They all looked at him in disgust, pointed their fingers at him, and whispered to each other. Even the little kids.

"Lower your weapons."

John turned, and nodded to the marines. They were outnumbered ten to one, plus the presence of innocent bystanders kind of put paid to opening fire. Okay, maybe not so innocent, and they weren't exactly bystanding, but there were kids in the crowd. Babies. Toddlers. They reminded him of Torren.

"Now relinquish them."

_Crap… _

John hesitated, but nodded to them once more.

"We believed your kind had died out."

"What? Kidding, right?"

John waved his arms in the air, exasperated. Had the whole Ancient thing reared its ugly head once more? Before he had time to think this through, he was punched in the face, giving him a bloody nose, causing him to stumble.

John tripped, went down on one knee, and pinched his nose. He scrubbed a fist over his face, and made the mistake of shifting onto both knees, looking up in challenge.

All four of his companions shouted out in protest. Two goons grabbed his arms, and twisted them high behind his back. John grimaced, and a grunt escaped his lips. His arms were immediately tied together at the elbows, putting undue pressure on the array of old bruises on his upper back. Yep, it hurt.

"His kind? Whatever you think he is, he's one of us. Please let him go for pity's sake!" cried Beckett.

Horiak walked menacingly behind John, and prodded him in the back. John winced, and bit his lip.

"Something hurt here?" Horiak reached for a cudgel tucked into his belt, raised it high, and banged John hard between his shoulder blades, sending him flying. His face smacked on the pathway, and he was almost grateful that it was muddy, and therefore a soft landing, since he couldn't break his fall. He was hauled upright again. His nose began to gush blood.

_I'm getting too old for this. It's not just the years_, _it's the__ the mileage_, _too_, he thought ruefully, and felt a half smile appear on his face.

"You ridicule us? Your kind always did have the gall." Horiak gave John another backhander. He ached to bring his hand up to his face to staunch the renewed blood flow. Instead, he was forced to watch blood drip from his nose onto his boots.

" 'Your kind'? You keep saying 'your kind'? What do you mean? At least have the decency to explain your backward mindset! This whole set-up is like the Dark Ages! What is this, a witch hunt?"

"McKay... Zip? It?" John shook his head sideways to indicate zipping it, and splashed blood like a wet dog shaking off water.

"Who or what do you think the lad is? For pity's sake, tell us!"

"He's…" and Horiak's expression morphed into one of such disgust, as if he couldn't bring himself to repeat something. "He's a Torm."

A gasp of horror spread through the village.

"Meaning?" McKay's mouth was wide open, and he was clearly irritated. John hoped he wouldn't do anything dumb.

"A Torm!" Horiak looked at McKay like he was stupid. He rolled his eyes in exasperation, apparently conceding that the McKay was ignorant. "A Greeneye."

"A Greeneye? Oh, you've got to be kidding!" McKay tutted. "Anyway, his eyes aren't green, they're hazel, aren't they?" Rodney peered into John's eyes, his eyes flickering back and forth. "Albeit a light hazel with hardly any brown in it. Like a pear with a dash of blight. Or maybe even celery with tiny specks of bad bits in it."

"Not helping, McKay." John glowered at his fat-mouthed friend.

"Quiet." The goons pushed John's arms higher up his back, causing him to grunt.

"I guess… melonumpkins… are off the table."

"I said, "Quiet!" A sly expression crossed Horiak's face, and he backhanded him again, sending him sprawling into a pile of rocks. John groaned. He felt blood trickling from his forehead, and wondered why he always liked to goad the bad guys. Yeah, it showed defiance and therefore strength of character, but that only made them hit him harder. He was hauled upright again, but the blow to his head caused his legs to buckle. He was beginning to feel dizzy.

"John, do as he says, please, there's a good lad," whispered Carson, his voice cracking.

John watched, bleary eyed and floating, as the Kemmians relieved Carson of his medical kit, and the two marines of their loads. The other three derrith dudes walked around the marines and the doctors, scrutinized them as they stood there stiffly and defiantly, and finally whispered in Horiak's ear.

"Seems it's just you, but that still has to be determined. Why they let you in their midst I don't know. You have a lot of nerve coming here."

"Name's John Sheppard, and we were invited." He could feel himself wilting. Not good. He needed to stay strong, stay alert. Upright.

"The likes of you? Never. We rounded up and exterminated your kind a generation ago. Every last one of you. Man, woman and child. Or so we thought. How did you escape?"

"My kind? What's a Torm anyways?"

"Silence!" cried the derrith named Splanek, then he turned to Rodney and Carson. "Why do you ally yourself with this piece of filth? And you two young men - did you not hear the tales of their deception? The wanton destruction they brought on our kind?"

"He's my commanding officer,' Rozenberg piped up. And as an afterthought he added, "Sir."

"Then you are a fool."

"We don't understand. _Sir_."

Splanek scanned their faces as if appraising them of their innocence. Not once did he look at John. Then without warning he shoved him into the crowd.

This was it.

The villagers spat on him, and struck him with whatever implements they had to hand. That or bare fists. John was oddly grateful they only had sticks and no axes or knives. They laughed as he faceplanted. They kicked him when he was down, and even as he was being yanked upright again. McKay shrieked for them to quit. The last thing John heard before his ears started ringing with the endless blows, was of McKay yelling that he was a Blackeye not a Greeneye.

_Thanks, Rodney, _he thought, _for everything. For making… me laugh… in the face of -_

The last thing he was aware of before his thoughts became ragged and his vision grayed and speckled was being thrust through a toothless, flapping maw.

oooOOOooo


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – The following might seem a tad daft, but I felt like tossing in my take on the whole tacky 'marching band in head' motif. Just for fun/a writing exercise. Tee hee. XD

oooOOOooo

Like most guys, John didn't really believe he'd ever mentally left 8th grade, but he had thought he'd at least left it physically. So, what was he doing at a middle grade band practice? A cacophony of grating and pounding and squealing sounds assaulted his brain. He had visions of a bunch of pesky little sixth-graders practicing in a tent. Band camp. Gah. It was agonizing, even since pre-school then kindergarten, listening to himself and his peers skinning cats and culling seals and whacking moles. He couldn't wait to go home - it was raining anyway, so no baseball in between practice sessions - and vowed to trade in his sax for a guitar.

_Yurt,_ he thought as he started to come around. _Not a tent. Not even a tepee. Not band camp. Not in eighth grade. _The all pervasive din was of his own device. His thumping heart. His pounding head. Even his gurgling belly. He vaguely remembered McKay muttering something about Genghis Khan meets William Wallace meets Geronimo.

_Wow._ _Crazy dream._

John lay on soft bedding, a bright light assailing his sore eyes. He'd made up some tale while he was out of it, muddling up a bunch of movies he'd watched with his team recently. He hadn't left the infirmary after all. The syrupy bad guys had turned on him and his team, leaving McKay thankfully unharmed, his unprecedented genius intellect intact. They were all battered and bruised, him more than the others. Thankfully his recent impalement scars hadn't reopened, though he still felt a nagging twinge on his left side.

John thought the lights down, but they didn't respond.

_Carson's penlight_, he thought, and smiled inwardly. He planned on berating it playfully. He hated the damn thing, but at the same time welcomed it. It meant he was home safe. Under the auspices of Atlantis's infirmary.

"C-Carson?" He sounded more nasal than ever. He hoped his nose wasn't broken yet again. It was blocked, most likely with congealed blood. He tried to bring his hand up to his face, only to find his arms restrained at the wrists. He jerked his legs. Also restrained. At his ankles. This sucked.

"Carson?" he tried once more.

"I - I'm right here, John," came the creepily hesitant reply.

Why did Carson sound so… concerned? John didn't feel that usual wave of relief.

"Did I flip out? Y'know, for one minute, I thought we were offworld."

Silence.

"Doc? You're scaring me. My eyes hurt. I - can't open them." He shifted position, as far as the restraints would allow him. He hoped for the best. "Relapse?"

"We _are_ offworld, son. You, me and Doctor McKay."

"Plus a coupla redshirts."

"Whuh?"

"We've been released, Colonel," Beckett added sheepishly.

"I don't feel very released, Carson," John growled as he rattled his restraints. "Care to fill me in?"

John opened his eyes, cautiously at first. He got them half way open, and slammed them shut. For some reason, his eyes now felt like they were being stabbed repeatedly. Eyeballs weren't supposed to get pins and needles.

He blinked, and struggled to focus on his two geeks and two marines. Four pairs of blue eyes stared down at him, but the four pairs somehow coalesced into two, as his vision righted, and John realized only Rodney and Carson were hovering over him. Where the hell were Rozenberg and Sorensen? Sheppard started, and scanned the room for them, twisting his wrists in his restraints. He hated being this helpless. He was supposed to be in command. He needed to know where his men were. He -

"They're okay. Being treated well, I hear, although they're confined."

"You okay?" He had to know. At least that.

"We're fine, John. Thanks for asking. Being treated as kinsmen, actually."

"And me?" John shot the doctor a filthy look, though it cost him. God, his eyes hurt so bad.

Beckett opened his mouth, about to say something, but McKay butted in.

"Sworn enemy."

John fixed his slitty gaze on Beckett. "You about to tell me to relax again, Carson?"

Beckett drew in a deep breath, and threw an 'over to you' glance at McKay, who looked away.

"What is 'my kind', huh? Tell me! And what kind of freakin' infirmary is this?"

Both men flinched. McKay fish-mouthed, leaving Beckett to do the deer-in-the-headlights impression. This was getting old.

"Apparently, it's to do with your eye color."

"Kidding, right?"

"Er, no. Sorry, Sheppard." McKay shrugged.

"Good thing Ronon and Teyla aren't here. "

"What makes you say that?"

John rolled his head. His restraints precluded him from qualifying his words with any subtlety of gesture.

"If they're _this_ pissy with green eyed humans," he rattled the restraints in emphasis against the bars of the cot, "would they go ballistic or orgasmic over brown?"

He thought of Teyla, and her warm, striking, almond-shaped brown eyes. He balked to think of anyone hating her for having those eyes, and Ronon's, whose eyes were… were… well, he'd never really paid attention. All he knew was he didn't think they were blue. Or brown.

"Sheppard! John! We… "

"Don't know what to do? Kinda short of ideas myself. One thing, if you get back home, and I don't,"_ and I most likely won't_, "just… just check Lorne and his team over for eye color, will ya? Don't let anyone with green or hazel eyes come out on any rescue mission. So, what am I? Huh?"

"A Torm," whispered McKay.

John shot McKay as fierce a glare as he could manage, one guaranteed to prompt him into spilling.

"A Greeneye, and… erm… quite-possibly-the-last-of-your-kind."

"Last time I checked, Rodney, my 'kind' were thriving on - back home, and were quite capable of blending in with the general population with no repercussions."

"I'm betting you had more hang-ups over your elf ears."

"Again, not helping, McKay."

"No, probably not. My bad."

The two doctors were slowly becoming less blurred, and it finally hurt less to move his eyes, probably because they were tearing up from the discomfort yet thus providing a modicum of lubrication. He blinked the tears away. He had to be able to see, to assess the situation. John scanned his surroundings through sticky eyelashes. Still in a yurt. Some M.A.S.H. set up. Low slung. Drab. Splashes of color broke up the drabness in the form of gaudy wall hangings. He guessed that was a strategy to compensate for the dreary climate. He scanned Beckett and McKay up and down, and frowned. They both wore the ethnic garb of the townsfolk over their tee shirts, but had lost their boots and BDUs. They even wore gangsta bling like those derriths or whatever the hell they were.

"Cozy, are we?" he quipped.

"We passed the long-lost relative test, and apparently reaching forty is a blessing hereabouts. We are considered derriths. Elders." Carson shrugged. "They were culled, John," he added in hushed tones.

"Wraith." John looked away with a sneer. He jerked his right hand in an abortive attempt to rub his feeding mark. The damn thing tingled whenever he thought about it.

"Not exactly."

"Then, who?" but he already knew the answer to that one. That bad, huh? He was screwed with a capital screw.

The Torm.

Crap.

"So, what about you two? Rozenberg and Sorensen?"

"Blue, no contacts." McKay shrugged.

"Good. That's good. Dumb, but good."

"And you - well, you failed. Obviously," he added, roughly indicating his current predicament with a perfunctory flap of his left hand.

"Obviously." John rolled his eyes, and rattled his wrist restraints. "They didn't dig around for contacts, did they? They did? So that's why my eyes hurt like hell. Again. So now what?"

As if on cue, Derrith Muwik floated into their sectioned-off area of the yurt, followed by several goons.

"Release him," he ordered, with an emphatic jab of a forefinger. John was painfully aware the Kemmian could barely even look at him. Uh oh. Dead man walking.

"Gee, thanks, Muwik. I was beginning to grow a little concerned here. We come in peace, remember? Trade?" He offered his winningest, shit-kickingest grin to date. He hoped to project his own humanity, possibly engender some empathy from these strangers who were clearly slavering for his blood.

"Not with the likes of you." Muwik glared. "As for these two, they are now under our auspices. The other two will remain incarcerated for the time being, as they are still somewhat belligerent despite our reassurances. I put it down to their youth and inexperience. And your influence."

John dropped the grin. Empathy just took a left turn at Albuquerque. Followed by a dog-leg at Osh Kosh.

"And where do I fit into your Cunning Plan?" _Do I really wanna know?_

"Derrith Carson and Derrith Rodney gave your name as John."

"Did they now?" He speared them each with a withering look. They duly withered.

"John." Muwik uttered his first name soothingly, with one hand on his shoulder. Too intimate, both the contact and use of his first name. He tried to shrug him off, mentally and physically. "As the last of your kind, we intend to make a public spectacle of you. An example. You shall physically atone for the sins of your race. Should you survive, you will take your leave from us to atone spiritually, and return for the final stage of your punishment. If you are innocent, as you claim, you will live."

_Go, me._

John didn't get the tone. It ran counter to the man's words.

"Heads you win, tails I lose, huh? Great odds. Jeez... "

Muwik clearly chose to ignore the outburst. "You will, of course, need spiritual guidance."

"Now you're being creepy. Wanna come trick or treating with us this year?"

"Sheppard! John!"

"Colonel! John!"

"If I am to 'atone', guys," he made mental quotation marks, and shook his head from side to side instead, rolling his eyes, "I may as well have some fun while it lasts. Muwik, would you _derriths_ finally have the decency to tell me exactly who or what you think I am?"

"He will be reminded in due course," the man replied, and nodded stiffly towards his new-found kinsmen and newly-appointed elders, clearly floored by John's lack of contrition, not to mention completely ignoring him. The guy turned on his heel and exited the tent, along with the grunts, leaving a frigid gust of wind in his wake. Good ol' tent flaps. Often the only source of heating and cooling.

Moments later, two goons returned. Clearly Muwik didn't have the guts to witness his own next course of action. John braced himself, eyeing those stunners.

"I am so sorry, lad," Carson whispered.

"Watch out for the others," John replied softly. "Try to stay in a position of trust," he added with a quick nod. "It might keep you alive long enough for a rescue."

Beckett nodded back then patted his arm. John fought not to wince.

"What? What just happened? Scratch that, what's about to happen?"

"We're going to keep things nice, McKay… " John nodded towards Beckett, who nodded once more, this time he looked away. "McKay? Rodney!"

"Scouts honor. I hereby promise to play nice." McKay fumbled a salute.

"Enough with the whispering!" cried a goon.

John instantly nicknamed him Taz. No deliberation, the man was a whirlwind of emotion. He and... uh... _Daffy_ unhitched his cuffs from the bed rails, and dragged him upright. The relief from being released was short-lived as blood rushed back into his extremities, causing them pins and needles and a muscle cramp in his neck. John's legs buckled beneath him, and he resented his obvious weakness. Not good. He braced himself. Then they dragged him up by his forearms.

"Stand and identify yourself," hissed Taz.

"John. That's all you need to know, and only considering you already know that much."

"Remove his tunic."

_Tunic? _They had already taken away his tac vest and ordinance.

"No"

"What?"

"I don't think so." He knew of old where this was going to lead. What was it with Pegasus galaxy bad guys that made them want to strip him?

"Take the lot," Taz stated slyly, eyeing him up and down.

"Kidding, right?"

"No, leave him with his undergarment," Daffy replied sharply.

Small mercies. Huh. He'd narrowly escaped the attention of some perv. Didn't stop the guy from slicing his tee away from his torso, his free hand lingering on his bare skin. John struggled not to flinch from the prolonged physical contact. He stood defiantly, despite his embarrassment at one - being manhandled and ogled and stripped to his boxers, and two - looking like some Dollar Store Halloween decoration. That or a torn bag of fall yard waste. Or even a plucked Thanksgiving turkey complete with goosebumps. He knew he was still a mass of bruises, but they had mostly faded to retreating patches of red, orange and yellow. Apart from his back, he guessed. It was most likely back to square one. Black and blue. He heard Rodney gasp. Of course, Rodney hadn't seen him like this. Only Carson, who was even now in doctor mode and scanning him up and down. He was tempted to yell, 'Trick or treat!'

"Looks worse than it is, Rodney, and no, Carson, it doesn't hurt any more."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what exactly, Rodney? You were there. You sustained a good few blows yourself."

"Not like this! Oh, of course, you, Conan and Xena protected me. Look where it got you. They both have smushed limbs, and you have two shiners."

"And you got to keep your head. It was when they started threatening to suck your brains out through your nostrils, and pickle them in formaldehyde, that we - "

"Enough talk! Proceed."

Taz wrenched his wrists in front of him, then he freaking manacled him, attaching a long chain with a baton-like handle. This was growing sicker by the minute.

"What do we do? I dunno what to do!"

"Go home. As soon as you get a chance. And - take care of each other."

_Scrape me up and take me home, too_, _someday_, he thought wistfully.

oooOOOooo


	4. Chapter 4

As Taz yanked him outside into the gloom of dusk, he realized he hadn't properly mentally prepared himself for what was most likely in store for him. Misery. He braced himself in the doorway, anchoring himself mentally and physically, his feet firmly planted on the threshold, his ankles butted up against the door frame. He couldn't go out there. No way. Pitchfork wielding peasants swayed in the fog like extras in some old black and white horror movie, out to wreak vengeance upon the vampire, the werewolf; the freak. Him.

This was sick. His stomach churned, his chest heaved, and he was about to take a deep breath when he was thwacked between his shoulder blades by Daffy, which shocked him back to even crappier reality. He lost his footing, and twisted his left ankle. He gingerly rotated his foot. Ow! Yep, sprained. Crap. Two rows of people stood by the exit, eyeing him in disgust. So, he was supposed to hobble the gauntlet of the entire village and survive? It looked like the population had tripled somehow. Bad news travels fast, he conceded. The clan had gathered from far and wide like crows at twilight, some three hundred of them, young and old, hale and infirm, brandishing sticks, canes, stones - you name it, they wielded it. Some creep had even brought his damn dog.

The dog snarled at him, baring its teeth. It was a big, black, shaggy wolfhound. He usually got on well with those. Well, pretty much any dog, really. Still, why couldn't it've been a shi-tzu? Something that would nip his ankles rather than rip his face off? At least the sleak black cat winding in and out of its owner's legs further down the very long line wasn't a freakin' leopard. John let out a sigh.

The townsfolk were slamming their various bludgeons into their hands. No stunners. He guessed those things were too quick. Not torturous enough. Some cute, snub-nosed, freckle-faced little kid with a buzz cut was toying with a fly swatter. He was grinning, clearly eager to take a swipe at him. He couldn't have been more than seven. The same damn wolfhound growled, and snapped at his heels. Then it barked once. That seemed to be the cue for action. What, the dog was calling the shots?

Taz yanked him across the threshold by his chain, and Daffy shoved him into the fray, then - blows rained upon him from every direction, as if he'd suddenly been caught up in a swirl of hurricane detritus or lobbed into a wood chipper. He could have sworn he'd just been struck in the small of his back by a flying dinner plate. He turned to face his tormentor - just maybe whoever it was held some sense of humanity and decency if they looked the 'enemy' in the eye - only to see a second actual dinner plate Frisbeed towards his face by some dear sweet li'l ol' granny lady who'd brought her crockery for want of another weapon.

"Cracked, they were! I wouldn't waste the good stuff on you, so don't you look at me that way, boy! I'll not waste my pity either!"

John realized his reflexes were already shot to hell as the second plate struck him on the bridge of his nose. He didn't have a moment to recover as the wolfhound snapped at his bare feet, driving him on. Some naked toddler pissed up his leg. Wow, young and old, they certainly weren't holding back. As some brutish teen cracked open the back of his head with a baton, John went down onto all fours, his head swimming. A group of women cackled. The excitement resonant in their voices was alarming.

_Why… _

"Let's freshen up those faded bruises! Make 'em pretty again!" John heard the swish of canes, then felt their relentless sting.

John wasn't about to crawl, not yet, but the vicious onslaught on his still tender back kept him from pushing himself upright. The steady thwacking told him there were at least four of them in cahoots, each striking his back and flanks and even his ass a good thirty to forty times each, and grunting from their exertions as his body flinched and twitched. He soon felt the trickle of warm blood. It cooled against his welted skin in the evening breeze, but offered no respite from the heat emanating from his abused body. John shivered.

"He's got stupid ears as well as stupid eyes," came a small, squeaky voice.

As he lay there panting and shaking, he turned his sore head in the direction of the voice. Through bleary eyes, he could just about make out a tiny little girl with an array of golden curls and doll-like eyes. Blue, with black eyelashes and eyebrows. Weird. She couldn't have been more than five years old.

"I can hear, y'know. My ears work just fine. Ears… come in all… shapes and sizes. You got that, missy?" He saw creepy twins, but he put that down to double vision and a recent rewatch of The Shining.

The Baby Jane wannabe looked puzzled, then smirked, her dimples rivaling Carson's. She bent down, examining him coldly like he was a specimen under a magnifying glass. A butterfly with damaged wings. Then she grabbed his cowlicks, and pulled as hard as she could, making his eyes water.

"And he's got really stupid hair!" she declared, looking around for praise. She peered at him again.

If he'd had wings, she would have just pulled them off.

Why the adults started laughing and encouraging her, he didn't know. These people were just plain nasty. John had to face facts they were not about to have any mercy on him. He wasn't sure what hurt more - the physical blows, or the fact these people condoned this level of abuse in front of their own kids. He could hear their jeers and taunts and profanities. Then his ears began to ring. He flipped onto his belly, and finally tried to crawl along, to make all this end quicker if he got to the end sooner, digging his elbows in the dirt for purchase, but he couldn't. He was no longer sure what they were beating him with, but he didn't doubt he was a bloodied mess already. And still the hound drove him on.

Then Taz took a slight detour to the left, deliberately dragging him over a stretch of gravel. John scrabbled weakly in an attempt to steer himself, to even out any fresh injuries. His back was most likely already shredded, so he flipped onto first one badly grazed flank then the other to avoid scraping his groin. His boxers would only protect his assets so far. Then suddenly, some thirty feet later, the abuse stopped. It stopped. John could've cried with relief. The silence regaled him like white noise - a buzzing, ringing tinnitus. His body stung and burned and ached from head to toe. He tried to lift his head, but his neck muscles were already way too weak.

He struggled to open his eyes, but they were more swollen than ever. He lay there, gasping. He tried to speak, but the only sound to come out was a hoarse whisper. He choo-chooed his breathing to keep himself from hurling - to stay conscious, though both were a losing battle. In the distance, he could hear the howl of the wolfhound, and he could only imagine it baying under a full moon, silhouetted against the night sky. The sound grew fainter, tinnier. He felt himself being hoisted under his armpits and knees, and swung to and fro like a sandbag. He was momentarily airborne, then he landed hard, hitting the crown of his head. He heard a piteous whine from the hound, followed by some hollow, long drawn out metallic clang like some somber cliffhanger moment in a sixties B-movie. They say hearing is the last thing to go.

oooOOOooo

Carson dragged a visibly shaken Rodney by the sleeve of his tee as he pushed through the crowds gathering in a nearby glen. Nodding and smiling if not bowing and scraping, they both edged their way nearer the crate they were keeping John in, skirting around picnic benches, strewn blankets and scattered, ownerless canteens and cloth sandwich wraps. Huddles of Kemmians were drinking and laughing and generally wassailing. There was rubbish everywhere, though everything looked biodegradable, unlike back on Earth. Carson could scarcely believe these people were making a festival of this, with Colonel Sheppard as the macabre centerpiece.

The merrymaking had already started, and he could smell barbecues, which seemed to be sprouting up like it was the Fourth of July. He preferred to think of that particular holiday rather than the Fifth of November, Guy Fawkes Night. They had crated their living, breathing Guy like a cur. Every time they got within a few feet of the crate, some goon blocked their way. They had even posted a guard dog. Some hound or other, which stared at him with peculiar DayGlo green eyes. It was creepy to say the least.

Through the prevailing mist, Carson occasionally caught a glimpse of John, who scarcely had a patch of his normally healthy, tanned and glowing skin left on his body. That alone could kill him. He lay there exactly as he'd landed after being tossed like a sack o' coal into the crate. An old fogy poked John several times in the shoulder through the sides of the crate with his walking stick, but he didn't stir. It made Carson's stomach churn. And he thought he'd seen everything, or as John would say - been there, done that.

"Oh, godohgodohgod. Is he still alive? They beat him to a pulp, Carson!"

"I don't know, Rodney. These buggers won't let me anywhere near him!"

"Can't you do the trusty acolyte thing and get nearish?"

"Nearish is no bloody good, son. I have to tend him. Och!"

"Do something, Carson!"

"Think, Rodney! Use that brain you boast so often about!"

"I only know math and astrophysics! Wait. We could pretend we didn't know he was a filthy Torm infiltrator. Oh, god, I can't believe I just suggested that tidy little fix."

Carson looked Rodney up and down.

"You mean, gain their trust? That's our best bet. Look suitably disgusted, Rodney. Hm. Now dial it back a bit. That'll do it, lad. "

"Are we too late?"

"Stay positive, now. John would have told... would tell you that. Now, let's go save him."

"You mean scrape up what's left of him!"

"I'm not bloody daft, y'know! Anyway, let's pray he's only half dead."

"Staying positive, Carson! Filthy Torm infiltrator. I can do this. I'm good and mad. Good'n'mad. Good'n'mad... "

"Good lad. I have an idea."

"Thank the stars, because here comes trouble."

Both Carson and Rodney assumed a benign expression as the four derriths approached them both.

"Drink! Drink!" cried the one called Horiak, as he thrust two drinking horns at them. Carson took a swig, then winked at Rodney, letting him know the drink was citrus-free so far as he could tell.

"Cheers! Derrith Rodney and I want to thank you, good brethren."

"For what?"

"For acknowledging us as kin, and treating us with the respect we deserve for having reached the ripe old age of forty." Carson nodded twice for good measure, and flashed his winning, dimpled grin. Well, it used to work on his dear mum, bless her.

"I take it you were not held in high esteem on your homeworld of Vankoovar? You see? You see?" Horiak slapped him on his back in a chummy sort of way. "Lies and deceit! Lies and deceit! From this Torm, who kept you Vankoovians as underlings, despite the fact he is younger than you, not even a derrith." Splanek kicked the crate. Muwik rattled it for good measure. Carson could have wept. John lay there in a heap, not even reacting to such extreme stimuli.

Rodney took the opportunity to edge nearer John's crate, keeping a wary eye on the big black dog, which seemed to grant him passage, though it growled and snarled. He peered in.

"Younger? What the? I mean, yes. John is much, much younger than us, the, er, swine! Yet he forced us Vankoovians to do his bidding like the sneaky Torm he is. We would like to take him back with us now that he has been properly punished by you. I have no doubt he will be more contrite and subservient. And we'll keep him as a slave. Yes. To do our exacting and nefarious bidding from now on. We'll make his life a living hell. Er, does that work for you darths?" He rubbed his hands together, and cringed like Igor.

"I'm afraid you are already too late."

"What? He's dead? Nononononono... "

"I believe what _Derrith_ Rodney is trying to say is that if you punish him further, we Vankoovians will be denied our own revenge upon him. He hid his true self from us. His true origins. For many years." Carson nodded to add a modicum of credence to his words.

Horiak appeared to be actually listening to him, tilting his head this way and that like some bloody budgie.

"His punishment isn't over. He can only face your punishment after facing ours."

"So, he lives? May we check for ourselves? We want something left of him to take back with us. It's only fair."

"How do you intend to punish him?"

"We'll shut him in the same room as the dreaded Kavanagh."

"What is this dreaded Kavvah Naah?"

"It... it defies description." Rodney piped in, his eyes darting around. The foursome looked suitably impressed at this clearly unspeakable form of torture.

"Rodney... " Carson muttered. "We promise to beat him daily," he declared.

Splanek turned to his peers. Then all four of them broke into a smirk. One of their number even spluttered. The wimpy, taciturn Bink.

"You are both highly entertaining. I believe we all equally doubt your sincerity. Still, you may take your Torm, though we also intend to castrate him beforehand so he cannot reproduce. That will satisfy us. Your attempt at fooling us was not without its charm, however. You may tend him, as we prefer him alert and aware for his upcoming ordeal which begins at sunset. His atonement begins at dawn. And good riddance to him!"

Horiak then pushed his face so close to Carson's, he could feel spittle rain down on him despite the beads of moisture forming on his skin in the damp, evening air. The man's next words were even more chilling.

"You must also swear to exterminate all offspring."

_Oh, good Lord_, thought Carson. _Where was their humanity?_

He kept his own counsel after that.

oooOOOooo


	5. Chapter 5

A/N - I know, I know. I posted chs 3, 4 and now 5 in rapid succession. Like, enough with the sissy stuff, already. Let's get down to the actual horror! XD

oooOOOooo

"Sheppard! John! John, wake up. Please! It's us."

John had no intention of waking up, but his body made the decision for him. Hours of lying on the rough, cold floor of a wooden crate had taken its toll. He was stiff, sore and aching all over, and if he could… just… move… Gah! Oh, God, it hurt so bad to even twitch. He had to make the effort, to get whatever blood he still retained flowing evenly around his battered body.

The trick was to just dive into the cold water, not just dip in a toe, then a foot, then wade in up to your knees, then your belly button, cringing and whining all the way until you dunked your shoulders. Then it always got easier. Same with a charley horse. Why prolong the agony? Quit the inch by inch move. Just shake it out. Rip off the bandaid. Dive in. Move. Squirm.

He flexed his arms and legs, and shrugged his shoulders, feeling the unwelcome sting of fresh lacerations on top of bruises. He refused to open his eyes. There was little point in trying. He couldn't. They had been held shut by swelling, then glued shut by crusted blood.

"It's okay, son. We're here for you. Just to give you a heads up, I'm cleaning you up. Brace yourself, lad."

John let out a soft moan. The feel of a cold, damp cloth roaming over and around his head and neck and limbs and torso woke him up to allover goosebumps and every last blow he'd taken at the hands of the Kemmians, young and old and in between. He even thought maybe the dead ones might come back to haunt him. Even some freakin' canine Kemmian had lunged at him, though in the end, it had really only barked, done the MC thing, jerking everyone's strings.

The hospitality in this place stunk. Something told him it wasn't over yet. He struggled to rip one eyelid open, finally succeeding, after another welcome rag had been pressed against his swollen eyelids for several minutes, wiping away congealed blood even as it soothed. He could finally vaguely make out Carson dabbing at his injuries, and Rodney clutching a bowl of water, the look on his face making it seem more like a begging bowl rather than an offering.

He thought he saw a black cat with glowing green traffic light eyes in the crate with him, and he tried to stroke it, but he couldn't even lift his arm. Was it even there? Maybe he was seeing things.

_Crap..._

"C- C- C-"

"Carson's right here."

John shook his head, and twitched a forefinger to his left.

"C-Cat."

He had to know if there really was a black cat in the crate with him. He didn't subscribe to whether a black cat was lucky or unlucky, but he needed to know if it was really there or if he was hallucinating.

"Shoo!"

That gave him his answer. Unless he was also hearing things. There was really no way to know. He fumbled around, and found his left hand buried in a furball. Which purred. So, not a skunk or haggistribble. John smiled. He stroked it a few times, grounding himself, then let his now shaking hand drop. He was spent. Bummer. His scrabbling fingers found rough wood. And splinters. Was there no end to his torment?

"At least... someone... or something… around here... likes me. You… okay?"

"We're just hunkydory, John. As far as we know, so're Rozenberg and Sorensen. They're both hale and hearty, if all the shrieking of obscenities and cage rattling and chest thumping are anything to go by. I learnt a good few more ways to insult someone's parentage and manhood if not maidenhood today than ever I heard on the streets of Glasgow. And that's saying something."

John chuckled, though it made him cough and splutter.

"It over?"

"Sorry, son. I believe it's not. Not by a long shot. Let me check you over, and I'll see if I can offer you something to drink to keep your strength up."

What... planning...?"

"We don't yet know, son."

"Whh… Whuh... What... What'd … I do?" He forced an eyelid open only to scan Carson's earnest face.

"Nothing! You've done nothing wrong! Och, no, lad. Get that idea out of your wee head!"

"We just stumbled across yet another sicko, psycho Pegasus Galaxy society festering away in the Dark Ages."

"F-Figures."

"Where does it hurt, son?"

"More to the point, where… doesn't it hurt?"

"You Marion Ravenwood?"

"Funny."

"Hurts everywhere. Aagh! Hurts more! St-Stings! Stop! Please, don't... do that... again... "

"I'm so sorry, laddie! I have to palpate you. So far, no broken bones - "

John let out a puff or three. Carson was being gentle, he'd give him that, but it hurt enough for him to want to throw up. He could feel his breathing becoming more and more shallow and rapid. Then the cat brushed up against his badly scraped left flank, and he let out a long, agonized squeal. He would have taken a swipe at the thing, chase it off, but he didn't have the strength to lift his arm a second time. The cat finally curled up near his relatively unscathed left calf.

" - and no internal injuries I can uncover without scanning you properly back in the infirmary. I can give you something to drink, and a little something to take the edge off the pain."

"Feet... don't hurt... so bad, Marion."

"Yeah, right, Sheppard. Not kissing your feet. "

"Th-Think I… Think I..." He could feel something acidy rising in his throat. "Turn - "

"Turn him onto his side! Now!"

John found a great way to shoo the cat. Puke on it. The thing yowled, and made its exit between the narrow gaps in the planks. He didn't dare look at Carson and Rodney.

"The sun has set. We have prepared for the cleansing ceremony. We must begin."

John looked up wearily to see one of the derriths peering at him through the gaps in the planks, though he didn't know which one. To tell the truth, they'd all morphed into one evil homogenous blob of checks and splodges and bling.

"John."

"Whuh?"

"John, lad, we have to go now. We've been ordered to take a back seat. We - fell from grace." Carson looked down and away. "I've administered a strong sedative, son. Remember, we're here for you. We'll not leave you behind."

John looked up at them both long and hard. He drank in their features, their voices, their demeanor.

"You vanquished to the nosebleeds, huh? Just get me home when it's all over. The east pier... "

And John imagined his ashes being scattered into the New Lantian sea.

oooOOOooo

"Och, no! It's a bloody Catherine wheel! I had hoped... "

Rodney saw Carson slump, then followed his gaze to the set-up on a mound just north of the dreary village. The object in the center looked like a giant iron cartwheel, scorched and scarred and rusted as it was over the many centuries. It was surrounded by blazing torches and chanting derriths and general rabble rousers. Even a toddler acolyte or two. Rodney had heard of being broken on the wheel, but had no idea what a Catherine wheel was. He really hadn't ever wanted to find out.

"Carson? Care to fill me in?"

"It's - " and Carson shook his head. Just then, a troop of goons dragged a well loopy John Sheppard up to the wheel, and proceeded to splay his arms out. They tied his wrists to the upper spokes, then repeated the procedure, splaying his legs, restraining him at the ankles. John slumped, then summoned some reserve of energy to briefly raise his head. He stared around him in puzzlement, his battered eyes slitted and unfocused, his neck wobbly. He was clearly out of it.

"Carson! Beckett!" Rodney gripped Carson by his vest, and shook him. "What are you not telling me?"

"I spotted the bloody thing earlier. I hadn't the heart to tell you. I hoped I was imagining things. I dosed John up to the gills. I just hope he won't feel much. I gave him something bloody close to lethal, God help me."

"What's the difference? Eh? Between a Catherine wheel and a breaking wheel?"

"Ultimately, none, other than religious connotations. So, now you know."

"They're going to break him on the wheel? Break… We have to break Rozenthal and Stevenson out of whatever jail they're in! That's John up there! It's gonno kill him, Carson! He won't survive this! No-one can! I can't deal with this! John! John!"

"Rodney! Shush! No, wait. Carry on. Distract them. Just like you're doing. Keep it up. I'm going to free the marines if it's the last thing I do."

"Oh, God, Carson! Please hurry! Run!"

oooOOOooo

Where was he? Last he remembered, he'd hobbled then crawled rather than run the gauntlet of some pissy villagers, been beaten senseless, then stuffed in some nasty-assed, splintery crate. Rodney and Carson had come for him. They'd cleaned him up, given him something to drink which refreshed him big time, gave him a pep talk which kinda bucked him up, he'd pretty much told them he where wanted to be buried, and Carson told him he was giving him something for the pain. Thankfully, it'd kicked in pretty quickly, in fact, he still felt out of it. Wow. How high a dose was that? He could barely feel a thing. He was pretty much comfortably numb, even a little high.

John thought he could hear Rodney crying out for him. Oh, shit. He'd screwed up again. Rodney and Carson needed him, and here he was, catching up on some R'n'R. Okay, maybe not so much. He was pretty sure he'd been restrained vertically and not horizontally. Only something bad could come of that, though either way was crap times infinity and then some.

He heard Rodney screaming his name over and over again like a stuck record. Then he heard him scream at Carson, something about being doomed. Carson shrieked back something about a jarhead having flown the coop.

Code.

Go, Carson!

Sounded like one of his marines had gotten out, and had gone for help. What about the other one? Oh, God, he needed to go help! Do his part! The chanting intensified, and he felt glass tapping against his teeth. He'd chugged enough bottles to know the feeling, though it was somehow numbed, distant, like he'd been given Novocaine or whatever, like when he'd had a wisdom tooth extracted. Still, someone had poured a vial of some bitter liquid down his throat, clamping his nose and mouth shut to make sure he swallowed it. Then came some mumbo jumbo followed by a weird spinning sensation.

He was strapped to a wheel?

Fire!

Fire in the hole! What was he doing here? He should've taken shelter or found some high ground. Moral high ground. But - _he_ was the C4! Whuh? Oh, God, no. They'd brought the stuff with them in good faith! To assist the Genii in removing tree stumps. No, the Kemmians in removing weed. It felt warm at first, and he broke into a sweat. Fourth of July fireworks gone wild. His dad always insisted on attending community organized displays rather than private parties in back yards despite subsequent bottlenecks as everyone attempted to drive away at the same time to beat the traffic. Later in life, he chose not to face either, taking to the skies instead. The rockets he encountered then were real.

It hurt!

Dave always warned him never to go back to a dud, and that was a good thing as a rogue rocket nearly took his eye out in basic but a rogue sparkler had exploded, and tossed an ember between his big toe and second toe on his right foot and he shouldn't have worn flip flops as his dad had told him not to and he'd take a belt to him later for defying him and he'd screamed himself hoarse but that first time was decades ago when he was only four… Four… Fourth… and it wasn't the Fourth it was Halloween and Thanksgiving was next and it might be warm and they might light a fire and holy smokes, Christmas was coming but he no longer celebrated as there was little to celebrate when you were seven years old and your mom had died of… of… and your dad had died within, and your big brother had hightailed it once he was old enough though the fire yet roared and he was a s'more or a chestnut or toast and… and… the flames licked his body!

Holy fuck!

They'd set him on fire!

John fought his restraints, but he was helpless. All he could do was writhe and twist and scream as the blazing pyre engulfed him and roasted him to a cinder.

oooOOOooo

"They're burning him! Alive! Oh, god! Stop this!" Rodney ran forward, only to be shoved to the ground by Taz. The four darth whatevers were prancing around the flames, which flared to blue then guttered to an insipid yellow.

Sheppard had been burned to a crisp, his body twisted and charred. The mist teased the crackling embers into merely fizzing and spitting. Dying. Rodney fell to his knees, and began to blub openly. He looked up through tear-filled eyes when he heard a curious ripping sound like a zipper being yanked. Sheppard's still smouldering body started jerking, then the belly split open like a gutted fish, spilling out its dark contents.

oooOOOooo

A/N – dun dun dun-n-n…

Clan-n-n-g-g-g!

oooOOOooo


	6. Chapter 6

A/N - tra la la-a-a... the hi-i-ills are ali-i-ive with the sound of mu-u-u-si-i-ic ...tra la la la-a-a. Hm. Oh, dear, I really must prune my roses. Now, what else was I doing? Anyone for tennis? Tea? I was writing a Shep whumpy fan fic, was I not? I do believe I immolated Sheppard a bit. Tee hee. Well, I really should water my poor wilting geraniums in their hanging baskets, sweet things, or they'll not flower. I'll be right with you! Doe, a deer, a fe-male deer...

oooOOOooo

No air!

No space!

_Nngghh! _

Jhh had to break free, but had no idea where Jhh was, other than it was warm and wet and smelled of iron and carbon, and - Jhh didn't hurt any more.

Jhh slashed and bit and tore, and reached out, lashed out, slashing and slicing the very fabric of the - what? Coccoon? - a fucking Wraith coccoon? - and tumbled onto cool, welcoming loam, damp as it was from nightfall.

Jhh lay low, shaking, gasping, struggling to find his center of gravity, shivering in the wake of the sudden chill against his - pelt? Then Jhh realized something had shifted. Instead of being long and lean, his body had grown broad and juicy. What gives? Instinct kicked in, and Jhh scuttled towards the shadows, and there Jhh remained as still as he could, his eyes scanning for predators. They were everywhere, and they were out to get him. Of that he had no doubt.

oooOOOooo

Carson could hear the horrific, discordant duet of screams, and dashed back to the pyre and its incumbent pyromaniacs. Sheppard's were screams of agony, of torture, but Rodney's - oh, dear Lord, they were the screams of another kind of torment. Of insanity. Of despair.

Carson found his good friend curled up and gibbering, both hands incessantly scrubbing his face. Poor, poor Rodney had just witnessed what they'd done to John Sheppard. Carson was glad he hadn't stayed to watch any of the proceedings. He needed a clear, unsullied head. With the two marines out of commission, and Rodney on the verge of losing the plot, he was all they had.

He shucked off the tacky image of himself donning a batman cape just a wee bit too late.

Sorensen had somehow escaped and gone for help, having sustained a non life-threatening through'n'through during a knife fight. Carson had decided against his own one-man rescue, staying behind to save Rozenberg, who hadn't been quite so lucky. He lay pale and unconscious due to several deep, parallel lacerations on his entire right side, but not before writing a long, scrappy message for them in his own blood, telling them of Sorensen's escape, and wishing them all the best. Carson patched him up as best he could, then left him to his own devices after a trite yet hopefully reassuring pat on the shoulder for which he forgave himself. With any luck, Sorensen would be back with reinforcements before Rozenberg would bleed out. Carson had high hopes. He'd dealt with a similar situation long before becoming a doctor. Rival gangs of teenagers on the streets of Glasgow could be equally idiotic. He'd saved the life of his then best pal by guesswork, instinct, even sheer bloody dumb luck. He then couldn't imagine his own life spent not saving the lives of others, though Hamish had survived a gangland stabbing only to become an accountant.

"I don't fecking believe it! What? What is it, Rodney? Don't you be looking at me in that tone of voice now!"

"You. Just. Dropped the f-bomb."

"Aye, that I did. I feel like dropping more than an f-bomb as you put it. I'm that bloody upset!"

"Never thought I'd ever hear you curse. Well, apart from the usual bloody this and bloody that. Y'know, like Hell would freeze over first?"

"Open your eyes, Rodney," Carson added softly. "Hell froze over long ago."

Rodney hung his head.

"They gave him something orally. On top of the drugs you gave him. They kept whispering, chanting in his ear. He just kept shaking his head, telling them no. He… he defied them to the end, Carson. Something fuzzy crawled out of his corpse. It's over there, lurking in the bushes. I can't believe how many legs the thing has. It looks like him, Carson. It looks like a giant, spiky-haired, green-eyed tarantula. Am I going crazy?"

"I have to go check him. Check the body, that is. I know he's gone, but I just have to see for myself. I need to know. If it's - " Carson barely stifled a sob, "really him. Dentition. I'd know those pearly whites anywhere. The man had a flawless smile, I'll give him that."

"Do you think they pulled the ol' switcheroo?" Rodney did some funny little accompanying hand movement, and brightened visibly.

"I'll find out. If they did, we'll find him," Carson replied grimly. "Either way, we're fecking taking him home. Oh, and before you fecking say anything, fecking shut it."

Carson jabbed a threatening forefinger towards the Kemmian village.

"See you, Jimmy!" he yelled.

oooOOOooo

Jhh watched the human poke around the blackened corpse of the creature that'd just given agonized birth to him, prising open its maw and checking its fangs. Why bother? It's not like the thing would ever take another bite. Jhh shrugged. He retreated into the shadows, and suppressed a tell-tale chitter of annoyance. Just then, a large, furry creature twice his own size padded over, its head slung low, its demeanor purposeful. Jhh sensed no malice, just concern mixed with curiosity. The creature sniffed him, and for some reason, he allowed it to happen, and he even sniffed back by way of a friendly exchange. A meet'n'greet. He had nothing else to go by after all. Then, it nipped at him, sending him scurrying for safety.

Jhh soon found himself hurtling along a dirt path, and whenever he strayed from it, he felt the creature's breath and heard its yapping. The thing was herding him! He found a strange grace in his endless legs. He counted them as he galloped, elated at his own agility. Eight in all. His low center of gravity kept him from stumbling as he belted over unfamiliar terrain. It was dark, but his surroundings glowed neon green. Jhh marveled at his own night vision. He could see! Oh, how he could suddenly see. Everything. The universe opened up to him, from the tiniest mite to the mightiest nebula. He waved his two front legs skywards, relying on the other six for balance. And reached for the stars. If only he could fly!

Yet, where was he to go? Jhh scurried on, far away from the humans, and spotted a tangle of vines bearing fruit the shape and size of his own squat little body. The tendrils alarmed him, maybe because it made the tangle seem more like some giant carnivore with more legs than his own. The presence of the fruit itself was a blessing. He could crouch right next to one, draw in his legs, and no human would know the difference, especially if he rolled around the forest floor picking up ambient scents and detritus beforehand.

He was scared and alone, not knowing who he was or what he was or even which way up he was, and harsh daylight was fast approaching. The nipping creature had driven him here, and now seemed content to just watch him from a distance, panting, slobbering, poised, hackles raised as if ready to herd him again. That or corral him. Then it slunk over to his little patch of vines, and curled up next to him. Jhh felt alarmed at first, then found himself hugging it with all his legs, whatever it was. Whatever _he_ was apart from being Jhh.

Jhh.

Jhh?

Gah!

He guessed Jhh would have to do. Then along came another creature. It, too, curled up next to him, and he could hear a strangely soothing, contented rumbling sound emanating from deep within its gullet. It even rubbed its face over his entire body, scent-marking him like he meant something to it. He wasn't so alone after all, though they weren't his kind. Since he didn't know what his kind was, he would take what he could get. Jhh slept fitfully, and had a nightmare about being forged in the flames of Hell.

Jhh woke up stiff and aching in a cozy but fleeting patch of dappled sunlight to find the nipping herder had left sometime while he'd slept. It bothered him that he hadn't noticed. He was supposed to be alert. The other one, the purring scent-marker, was curled up on top of him like he was some kinda foot stool. But now what? He was new to this world. One thing he knew for sure, he was hungry. Still, he needed shelter in case the humans came for him. They wanted to burn him. Cook him up. Eat him. He wouldn't let them. He'd rather starve than go through that again. It was worse than the time he was fed on... fed on... fed on by a... hideous creature not unlike humans, though it fed through a maw in its forepaw. A snarling, grumbling thing. A predator. He shook off that image. Thoughts hurt. But he had to think!

Food. He needed food. Water abounded in dewdrops and leafy containers, even puddles, and he easily managed to slake his thirst, but what was he to eat? Just then, a small, furry creature not unlike the first two rolled into his field of vision, which was pretty much three sixty, given the number of eyes he currently possessed. Coupled with his amazing night vision, Jhh decided that was pretty cool. He'd seen one of these rolling things before, but couldn't remember what it was. He didn't even know what he was, or either of those other two furry black things. Heck, he knew nothing. Just that he was hungry and scared and hurting. Alone, not so much.

The rolling thing crashed into an old, woody knot of tendrils, shook its head, then scrabbled in the dirt with its front paws, its rear end and flat tail sticking up. It grabbed something with its teeth, and tugged. It fixed him with its grass green eyes for several unblinking moments, then nudged a long, legless, wiggling creature towards him. Jhh wasn't sure what to do with it. He couldn't even tell one end of it from another, which end was likely to jump up and bite him on the ass. He crouched there in a miserable huddle, hugging himself with all eight legs, which all pretty much met each other across his back and then some. Then it dawned on him. All these different creatures had in turn guided him to this his sorry-assed hidey hole, kept him company, kept him warm, and now they were trying to feed him? They couldn't fix his misery, but they could certainly ah, ah, al-_le_-vi-ate it. Jhh found himself grateful. They were kind, unlike those humans. Those were -_ si-ni-ster_.

Sinister. That was a good word. Fitting. He found himself longing for words. Words he could utter out loud. For the easy, ready use of language.

Jhh suddenly felt the urge to name everything. Name the nipping thing, the purring thing, the rolling thing, the wiggling thing. Even the snarling thing. The plant-life, all sentient beings, the scenery, the stars. Heck, he'd already somehow kinda named himself. He dozed for a while, though his rumbling stomach prevented any deep sleep. Jhh curled up next to the giant fruit on a tendril, and wished his buddy the nipping thing would return. It hurt to be alone, especially in the dark and under a shroud of fog, though daylight would soon expose him. The rolling thing nudged the legless thing near him. It had stopped wiggling and was drying out, stiffening, losing its juices. If he, Jhh, didn't eat soon, he too would stop. He'd stopped before, and it hurt him so badly, that he wanted to cry out even now with the memory of it. Jhh tucked his legs under him, and did his best giant fruit imitation, then slept some more. He dreamed of whispered threats and promises made to him as he burned to a cinder. Nightmares sucked. Moisture stung all his eyes. He wiped it away, and told himself to suck it up. To buck up.

Easier said than done.

Easier done than dreamed.

Easier dreamed than thought.

Easier thought than said.

He awoke sometime later to the sound of voices. Scary voices. Of humans. He cringed, almost quit breathing with the shock of it, and hoped to the stars above they wouldn't see him if he didn't move. He opened his eyes as one, but kept all his legs curled under him protectively.

"You know, Ronon. Sorensen expressly stated in his report that you were not to come on this mission. How you convinced Woolsey to let you I'll never know."

"My turn to rescue Sheppard."

"I hope to God Sorensen was wrong about what he witnessed."

"Me, too. Not waiting around to find out. Especially if I coulda done something."

"Like what? Both your arms are bandaged up."

"Kick ass."

Jhh blinked over and over again. What was this? He could feel a strange stirring at his core. A heavy, rhh- rhh- _rhythmic_ thump. There were twice as many humans as he had legs. On the way to the fiery nest of humans where he was born.

"I hear McKay named these things 'melonumpkins', and Sheppard fired one back by calling those rolling critters 'haggistribbles'. He even named one Pepe Le Pew. Can you believe it? My CO is one crazy SOB, no question. Shit, I feel like a total douche for sending him here. I shoulda known something wasn't right. Did I ever tell you of the time he - "

He knew these humans. There was something important he had to remember. Something to do with making things right. What was it? The humans in the nest, the loud ones who numbered half his legs, had named him. Called him something bad. Something he wasn't. Though he didn't know what he was, he knew he wasn't that. He thought of the humans heading towards the other nest. They mustn't go there, not with the giant one with tendrils for fur. He was heading for trouble. Why and how, he had no idea. He just knew.

He could accompany them to the edge of the nest. They would never see him. Maybe if he went back, he would remember the important thing. Several important things. He turned to the rolling thing, and nudged the dead wiggling thing back towards it. He wanted to thank it, but the words stuck in his head. He sniffed at it, and scent-marked it instead. The nipping, herding thing and the purring, basking thing had most likely gone back to the nest of humans, though why they would want to ally themselves to wicked creatures such as these he didn't know. In the end, he reckoned it was their business. He wanted to thank them, too. For trying to help him, for just being there. He scurried alongside the path for a great distance, and waited at the edge of the tangle while the new pack of humans entered the nest. It would be dark again soon. Perhaps then he would know what to do. Jhh curled up, making himself as small and insignificant and as still as could be. He could do… this…

oooOOOooo

"We can't go through this again! You might as well help him die right here in the crate, Carson. He's doomed. Give him something to kill him now!" Rodney's hand was shaking as he dabbed at Ronon's myriad injuries. He hadn't been beaten as badly as John. Maybe because of his bulk he'd presented a larger surface area. It'd taken four men to sling him into the crate as opposed to just two for John. Maybe the villagers had spent most of their ire on John. Still, none of that counted. Fire was fire.

"I'll do no such thing. The Hippocratic Oath forbids me. It's an oath, Rodney, not a pinky swear. I'll give him as high a dose of sedative and painkiller as I dare. Ronon, lad. I know you're hurting."

"Had... worse." Ronon was curled up in a quivering ball of agony.

"It's going to _get_ worse, you stupid Neanderthal!"

"Reckon... I had... a shot... at saving Sheppard. Where's Lorne?"

"Languishing in Jarhead Jail, licking his wounds along with the other redshirts."

"They're all in reasonable shape, except Rozenberg. He looks like he'd been mauled by a tiger, and his wounds are already infected. Lorne has a nasty cut over his left eye, and I suspect we have one broken ankle amongst the casualties, though I made the lad keep his boot on to act as a splint."

"I guess Lorne won't be licking his wounds after all."

"How do you make that out now then?"

"Cut over eye? Hello?"

"Gah! Quit making... me laugh, McKay. Ribs… "

"He could always lick someone else's. Er, no. Scratch that. I'm just rambling. I do that when I'm nervous. Oh, nononononono. It's getting dark. Here they come."

Rodney noticed there were around a third less revelers than the night before. He guessed enough was enough with the ongoing partying, and perhaps even a once in a lifetime chance of revelry easily lost its original impact and charm, like a two-day trip to Disneyland. One day was enough, but you felt compelled to go the next day because you already paid. He guessed the day trippers had headed home.

His gaze wandered forlornly over to the metallic Catherine wheel or breaking wheel or whatever the hell it was, and those ominous encroaching torches. As night fell, Darth Chucky, Darth Sardonicus, Darth Freddy and Darth Barney gathered, and soon began to chant and sway and do their darthy, whirling Dervish thing with their spinny skating skirts. What they were on about, or even what they were on, he would most likely never know, neither did he care. Then the goons came for Ronon, and hauled him to the wheel. There was nothing he or Carson could to but watch in morbid fascination as all four darths or dereks or whatever the hell they were set fire to the pyre. Rodney stared heavenwards, and prayed for a miracle. Rain. Rescue. He looked about him for any sign of a second rescue team. He wanted to hear the report of P90 fire. He couldn't listen to Ronon's screams, witness his death throes. Not so soon after John.

That's when Rodney spotted the giant, fuzzy, black spider through his swollen, tear-filled eyes. If he didn't know better, he would have said the poor creature looked devastated. He felt oddly compelled to offer it a modicum of comfort. He began to croon at it.

"Spider-pig, spider-pig. Does whatever a spider-pig does," he half-sang half-spoke in a tremulous voice. "Come here, little guy. You remind me of someone. Coochy coochy."

He fumbled in the inside pocket of his Kemmian vest, and found a half-eaten somethingorother sandwich wrapped in cloth.

"Here. Try some of this. What am I doing? I'm talking to a giant spider just because it reminds me of Sheppard. It's even doing the puppy dog eyes at me. With eight eyes. It better not have four black wristbands. Or ankle bands." He found himself checking out its four scrawny little right legs.

"You're no Catherine Zeta-Jones, buddy, though she's no more a blonde than you are. Wait! What am I doing? I'm talking to a muppet tarantula!"

Rodney watched in amazement as the spider first snorted, then reached up with one reticent hairy leg. The thing appeared to be staring at him wistfully, even maybe fondly. It was weirding him out. He expected animals to oink, to cluck, to moo. Be cute and fluffy, feathery or leathery. To taste great when cooked, and provide him with clothing and accessories and furniture. Be lab rats. But like kids, animals were never, ever designed make him think. He resisted the urge to pet it, to ruffle its – cowlicks? Oh, God, no… surely not!

"Y-You hungry, little guy? Eh? Here you go." Rodney snapped off a bite-sized chunk, dusted off some lint, and fed it to the spider-pig thing, snatching his hand back as one of its disgusting, woolly caterpillar legs came into actual physical contact with him. Ew! The creature stuffed the chunk into its toothless maw, making contented moans and whimpers as it chewed or masticated or whatever it was spider-pig things did when they fed. It was clearly enjoying its ready meal. Then it did something totally unexpected. It raised a right front leg and - freakin' freakin' freakin' saluted! - then threw itself onto the pyre.

_Sheppard! Nooo… _

"Carson!"

The screams emanating from the poor little bastard were all too familiar. He and Carson rushed over to the fire as the darthy dervishy dereks backed away. The fire flared blue with a dash of fall purples and oranges. Rodney was sure he saw the flicker of a human shape in the low flames that had steadily been encroaching upon Ronon's bound body, but that made no sense at all. He looked down, squinting, and there was the poor frazzled spider looking like an overcooked Guinness Book of World Records attempt at a superburger, with eight appendages all imploring skywards, gray and bony like twisted, spent sparklers, silhouetted against clawed, moonlit clouds.

He scanned for longer, his eyes darting from the hay to the wheel to the flames to the shadows, hoping all this might suddenly make sense. Then it began to drizzle, then pour, and the flames themselves jerked and writhed then guttered, leaving Rodney with tantalizingly Sheppard-shaped after-images burned forever upon his retinas.

oooOOOooo


	7. Chapter 7

A/N - 7th and final chapter coming up this 2010 Halloween w/e at the latest. XD

Uh, here's hoping y'all're enjoying my little horror tale, and I'm not writing this in vain, though I admit to being compelled to put virtual pen to virtual paper, dearth of encouraging reviews notwithstanding. Ah, me. :P

tra la la-a-a... raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens/bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens/wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings/these are a few of my fa-a-avorite thi-i-ings...

...when the bog dites, when the stee bings - Doh! ;-D

oooOOOooo

A/N - super duper extra hyper mega thanks to my terrif beta, **shepsgirl72** for suggesting a nightmare scene here - I managed to stuff in three - yay! - and to** joaniexjony **for coming up with the brill rag doll motif, which totally works. Woot! I'm on target to post on or before Halloween! Merest hints of Sheyla here, canon per John's escapist dream in the opening scene of S&R. He's only dreaming here, too, poor baby. My take. Enjoy! XD

oooOOOooo

"Oh, nonononono. He's not coming back, Carson. I had thought. I had thought. Maybe. I thought I saw him in the flames. Was I dreaming? Seeing things?"

"He's free now, son." Carson plunked a firm hand on Rodney's shoulder. He shrugged it off. Carson stared at him, as if searching his soul.

"What do you want from me? What?"

"Let's free our Ronon. How about it?" Carson looked typically kind and benign, making Rodney feel like a total ass as usual.

"At least that, eh?" he replied. "Big whoop."

"You wanted a miracle."

"What, someone do a rain dance? Can we at least take what's left of Sheppard home now? We can stuff him in this sandwich cloth. He... requested the east pier. "

Rodney rolled his left hand in a gesture meaning pretty much whatever he wanted it to mean at the time. This time, it was meant to indicate burial at sea. Tomorrow, it might mean double cheeseburger with pickles on the side please, switch channels now or suffer the consequences, or even cabbage crates over the briny.

"Aye, that we can!"

"You don't have to sound quite so ecstatic about it. Wait! Where are you doing? Ronon's still up there on the wheel looking a bit sooty! He might have smoke inhalation. We have to cut him down! What's with you, Carson?"

"Triage, Rodney, for crying out loud! That's what's with me. Ronon's alert. The smoke blew away from him and the flames never even reached him. They were… doused. Quenched. By the body fluids of that poor wee spider when it burst open like a bloody water balloon. Plus the light drizzle. Now, hie ye down here! Help me extricate him! It's a bloody miracle!"

Carson's dimples were positively crater-like. Rodney followed Carson's gaze.

No way.

Sheppard.

Sheppard!

John!

There he was, lying there still badly injured, but very much alive. It was impossible. But true.

"It's him! It's really him! The bastards tricked us! Didn't they?"

Rodney joined Carson in hoisting a soggy, singed John Sheppard out of the soggy, singed hay. Together they gently wiped and excavated dirt from the man's eyes, nose and mouth with their fingers, their sleeves - anything that came to hand. John squirmed in the mire like an exposed worm. Then his eyes flew open, preternaturally bright against the encroaching dark. Rodney leapt as John's hand shot out like Carrie's from her grave, and grabbed Carson's vest.

"I remembered, Carson, Rodney. I remembered. I wasn't what they said I was. Take me home. Please!"

And Rodney saw the same pleading yet wistful look he saw moments earlier in a kamikaze spider.

"Ronon okay? Sorensen? Rozenberg? Lorne? The other marines?"

The man's eyes were wide and pleading despite his own dire straits. Was there no end to his sense of humanity?

"They're all fine. Very much alive. We're all very much alive."

"Good. That's good. Hope ya don't... mind'f'I… 'f'I... " and John promptly passed out, arms and legs akimbo, a more relaxed expression on his bruised and battered face.

A limp, boneless John Sheppard was way easier to deal with than a thrashing one in any case. Rodney looked around for the cute, fuzzy spider-pig, but realized it was most likely long gone.

oooOOOooo

Jhh lay bleeding, oozing lava-like body fluids in the dying embers of the fire, staring skywards, his splayed limbs cooling even as his innards steamed, his juices bubbled and fizzled, yet he found no solace in his sacrifice. It'd been in vain. The tendril-headed human had been burned beyond recognition. They'd hacked off his blackened, cremated remains with axes, allowing his carrion to be scavenged on his broken carcass.

They then dragged another human to the wheel. They hated her, they screeched, because her eyes were the color of the land and not of the sky. They tied her, ignoring her cries, her pleas to go back to her suckling. Four human-like creatures approached the wheel. Life-suckers, all. As one, they slammed a feeding hand against her chest, draining her dry without mercy or remorse, then tossed the shriveled husk onto the still smoldering pyre. Jhh found himself immobilized, pinned now by the ravaged skeleton of the tendril-headed human, pinned by his own failure, staring at empty eye sockets.

The newly dessicated husk reanimated, and scrambled over to him.

"I want to thank you, John," it rasped.

"For what?"

"For rescuing me."

"I don't… remember… "

John felt a stab in his right side. He'd been impaled! By a human femur. Gah! The skeleton lolled its huge tendril-headed skull towards him, and growled through clacking jaws.

"You don't remember rescuing her because you didn't. Just like you never rescued me."

"No!"

John woke up screaming. This was five days in a row now, and it was getting old. He couldn't keep this up. It was taking its toll on everyone around him. He sensed rather than saw medical personnel, detected their flitting shadows, their various smells from aftershave to garlic breath, the sounds they made with squeaky running shoes. From time to time he even heard the clump of standard issue boots.

They all fell quiet, quit their fuss and ministrations, and sidled out of the ward. Bar one. Doctor Beckett. Carson. His silence and stillness told him he was waiting for him to speak. Maybe today he would. Maybe today he would look up at the good doctor. The man had the patience of a saint. John braced himself, and spilled.

"They told me I was less than human, Carson. Over and over."

He buried himself in the sheets as best he could given the number of wires and tubes attached to or inserted in his happily long, human male body. He wriggled his legs, and counted only two. Male? He did a quick shimmy. Yep, everything else below his belt was still there, too. Phew.

"We think it was a combination of drugs and sleight of hand, John."

"No. Nuh uh." John flashed a pained, half smile with accompanying one-shoulder shrug. "I left. Left the village. I came across the local wildlife. That big black wolfhound herded me along, nipping and nosing at my legs, until I reached the melonumpkin patch. Even some black cat swung by. They were more humane than humans, Carson. They took care of me, kept me warm, kept me company. Pepe Le Pew turned up, and even tried to feed me. I prefer my worms deep-fried, but if I tell ya, if I hadn't spotted the rescue team heading towards the Kemmian village... " John let that thought trail off. "Then when I saw Ronon - I couldn't let them do the same thing to Ronon! - I - I - had to come back. That's when I remembered what they said. Thing is... " John gulped, then began to choke. Carson offered him a drink, which quelled the jag. "Thing is, I had to be burned alive. Again. That was the deal. Oh, God! It hurt. So bad. Sometimes, I'm still there. It keeps happening, Carson! Every damn night!"

He struggled to sit up, but fell back into his bed. Sitting up took too much energy. John felt rather than saw a nurse tuck some more pillows behind his head. He felt grateful, and proffered a weak smile. He even made fleeting eye contact.

"I'm no psychologist, John, but you have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I do, Carson."

"You're not a Torm, son!"

"John rolled his head.

"It's not that, Carson. Still, how do we know exactly how good or bad these Torm were? They're not exactly around any longer to defend themselves."

"Aye, genocide."

"You feel it too, huh?"

"What's that, son?"

"Guilt. Shame."

"Good God... "

"At being human."

"Drop it, Sheppard."

"Ronon? You okay, buddy?"

"Yep."

John glanced at his ward mate. Ronon was every bit as battered as he was. At least he hadn't had to face immolation. That would have turned his good buddy into a refugee from humanity like himself. He would have had company in the melonumpkin patch, living a half-life as some inarticulate, primitive-brained arachnid. He wondered what kind of spider Ronon would have been turned into. Something huge with tendrils emanating from his body to rival those damn melonumpkins. He permitted himself a faint smile. Perhaps it was better to find some humor in all of this. That or his half-baked sanity would tumble out of an immolated body, plummet into a bottomless pit, where it would wander forever, ranting and raving, in an oubliette of his own tortured making. He stayed away from the edge of that pit, though he knew it was ever present.

"So, you gonna make us both face the Kavvah-Naah?" He flashed lop-sided grin.

"Peter Kavanagh is sadly on board an inbound Daedalus, but no, I reckon Woolsey will spare you both further torture. When you get out of here, how about death by beer, then?"

"Guinness?" John flashed Beckett a hopeful look.

"No, Duff."

"Whuh?"

John glanced over at Ronon, who winked, his eyes sparkling with humor. Nothing fazed the guy. After all he'd been through over the years. John knew he needed to put his money where his mouth was, and buck up. Still, he had something to say. Must be the drugs still coursing through his veins. Huh. That or maybe his new-found appreciation for his language skills, however weak.

"That Bink dude told me something. About the Torm. Seems they weren't even tall and skinny with dark hair. They were once kin, pretty much just as stocky and fair as the Kemmians. Almost indistinguishable. Apart from their eye color. But no-one chose to remember that. Not even the old folk. I became a scapegoat."

"You're not so tall, Sheppard."

"Hah! Guess not, buddy."

"You're not skinny either, lad. Just trim."

"Yeah."

John scanned his slowly healing body. It was an uphill battle, he conceded. He was yet to spot a single downhill, he thought, channeling Rodney McKay. He could afford to gain a few pounds, but he was close to his ideal weight, give or take. Maybe the incline was leveling off.

The bruises and scars would fade. If only it were that easy for his psyche to heal. The scars there were permanent, but as ever, he would never let on. The pit was there, as was the pendulum. John sighed. He had to find closure. Close the damn trapdoor. But how? Right now, it had a sneaky way of creaking open any time of the day and night. He slammed it shut. He had to sleep sometime, dammit!

oooOOOooo

He'd just taken his little short cut into the tower, crashing his jumper, but apart from a slight whiplash, he was pretty much unscathed. Good. He had a job to do. Save his Atlantis from a growing baby hive ship. He had to run the gauntlet of those tendrils, not get himself tripped up or choked, and administer the antidote.

He reached Keller's bedside, and jabbed her in the neck. He stepped back. So far, so good. She immediately became aware. Alert. Wait. What the? Uh oh. Not so good. The phage hadn't worked! All it did was animate her. She rose like a zombie from a grave on those tendrils, her gait rolling like a slew of snakes. She was coming for him, a sardonic grin on her mutated face.

_Ellia? _

But, he'd taken the cure! The baby hive ship part of her should have sensed the presence of the pathogen in his blood stream, and allowed him free passage. In and out. What gives?

The thing cracked those tendrils like whips. Crap. John stepped back, hoping to avoid another beating. His body couldn't take it. Not this soon. A tendril shot out, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, raising him off the writhing floor. He tried to shoot the thing, but a second tendril pinned his gun arm. A third tendril slithered up his shirt front, and ripped away his buttons. A fourth one slashed at his shirt and tee, exposing his torso. He was still a mass of welts and bruises. Maybe it would take pity on him. Let him go. Maybe he could appeal to its humane side.

Fat chance.

Four tendrils pulled his arms and legs out to the side. He knew what was coming. Then the assault began. The thing whipped his back and front without mercy, and he jangled from the blows. It even slapped his face. Oh, God, what if the thing ripped him limb from limb? Then it tossed him aside. He tried to crawl away, and fumbled for his 9mil. He slipped a few times in his own blood, but he forged on. Then - he found his gun! He turned to fire at it, but the thing whacked his forearm, knocking it out of his hand. It hoisted him into the air, and slammed him over and over again against the walls and floor. Not even the rampant hive ship growth could cushion him. He could feel all his bones break, and his body turn to mush. John screamed in agony. As the assault continued, the thing hissed in his face, and screeched at him over and over again.

"Rag doll, you are no more human than I!"

"No!"

John let out an inhuman squeal, and practically shot out of his bed, setting off alarms. They calmed him down yet again with soothing words and damp cloths. He fought against sleep. He couldn't take this any longer.

"They singled me out because I looked different. They made me feel different. Less than human. I became less than human." John paused, remembering the barrage of chanting and whispering. "No, I became more than human. The Kemmians, they were inhuman. Inhumane."

The drugs were making him talk! Crap.

"The critters, they were more humane than humans. The Torm, maybe they were - "

"For crying out loud, Carson, feed him actual food. Puh-lease! Giving Sheppard a dictionary intravenously is clearly detrimental to his health. _My_ health. He's only gotten to the Hs! Speaking of health - H is for Health, Sheppard - the melonumpkin juice, it… it… "

"Gave our Rodney here the squits."

"Come on! Whatever happened to doctor/patient confidentiality? Eh? I was going to say it stains! No wonder they wanted to get rid of it. Well, they're stuck with it now."

John glanced sideways to see Rodney perched on a chair by his bedside. A week later, and there were still black dribble marks on Rodney's chin, and the splash pattern where the spray hit him full in the face. Melonumpkin juice, it seemed, was as indelible and as dark as the stains on the collective Kemmian soul.

"Colonel, if it's of any compensation, Woolsey has arranged to have the Kemmian DHD disabled. They can become as self-important as they wanna be."

John winced. Elizabeth.

"You channeling Doctor Weir, Rodney? You telling me she's still here? In spirit?"

"Who's to say who's still here and who isn't? Doctor Beckett is still here, John," Carson whispered. "In spirit."

"In you, doc."

How could anyone doubt Carson's humanity? Oh, yeah. He doubted his own. He was a just rag doll after all.

oooOOOooo

They were about to shove him into the chainsaw-wielding Kemmian crowd. At the end of the line an iron maiden awaited what was left of him. There was a single elevator button on the side of the damn thing. It was a glowing red arrow pointing down. No green up button. One way trip. He thought he saw a figure standing in front of the 'elevator' like some glowing Statue of Liberty, but before he could make out who it was, John fought himself awake, stifling a scream. This time he didn't set off any alarms.

"No… "

John flailed and snatched at the ether, finding purchase on small, smooth yet firm forearm. Teyla. He might have knocked her over! Hurt her! He'd never forgive himself if he ever hurt her. What was he thinking? She could wield those crutches like bantos sticks, take down his sorry ass. Sorry…

"Sorry."

And how the hell she managed to walk on crutches with the ease and grace of a dancer, he'd never know.

"I am sorry for surprising you. You have nothing to apologize for, Colonel Sheppard."

She steadied herself, then bent over and touched his forehead with hers, grounding him. It worked every time since the day he met her.

"I believe your nightmares are abating somewhat. Colonel, John, please look up at me."

Her voice was calm, reassuring, but he was sure he detected more than a hint of concern in her tone.

_I can't look up. Not yet. Maybe some day soon, Teyla._

"I believe disabling the Kemmian DHD to be justice for what they did to you all, especially to you, John."

_And for what they did to the Torm. What we all did._

John kept his head bowed. How could the Kemmians ever hope to become something better than they were? If they were abandoned. In isolation… If he was struggling as just one man -

John rolled his head in anguish.

"You can run, but you cannot hide, John Sheppard," she added, raising a single eyebrow.

Uh oh. Teyla was onto him. He looked up through hooded eyes. And held her sultry, unblinking gaze. He felt a full-body stirring. Perhaps he was less reticent at being human after all. A red-blooded, American male at that. He'd acknowledged her when he'd turned into a bug, and almost took her by force. Now with a vestige of arachnid blood flowing through his veins, he didn't dare leap out of bed, lure her into his webbed lair, and -

Oh, God, she was so incredibly beautiful. He had once thought of her as beyond his reach. He would never wish ill upon Kanaan, who was a pretty decent guy, the father of her baby son, but if ever she were unexpectedly re-available... Next time, he wouldn't hesitate, put up stumbling blocks, hold back from physical contact, mourn Elizabeth's passing until rot set in in the dark, dank dungeon of his mind.

He imagined himself back there in the melonumpkin patch. For the rest of his unnatural life. Maybe even alongside his knife-wielding buddy. He chuckled at the thought of Ronon hiding knives around a hulking spider body, and wielding at least six knives at once, pivoting on two legs, alternating them, switching his knives from claw to claw in a strange arachnid war dance. It might not have been so bad. They could have sparred. Kicked human ass. Maybe even Wraith ass. He thought long and hard about camaraderie. Even McKay would be great company. Or would he? Maybe not. Sans banter, they would both be completely screwed. Rodney would be miserable without being able to talk. He would never wish that on him. He'd rather be alone.

He'd once seen deep inside Rodney's whale-beset psyche, but conversely had never let him see into his own, presenting a bland chick-free scenario of a benign, sterile gateroom and nothing of what was scrabbling maggot-like below him, clawing its way with bloodless fingers through the rusty, invisible gate in the floor. An army of clowns and doppelgangers and Kolyas and charred corpses.

_You torture yourself every day, John._

Yeah. How 'bout that.

So what of Teyla? Potential for arachnid procreation, huh? She deserved better than end up stuck with him in a melonumpkin patch for the rest of her life. Jeesh.

"John? John! Listen to me. You need healing sleep. I will stay. I promise to rouse you if your nightmares begin again."

"Whuh? Uh, thanks, Teyla. Think I might just switch off for a while."

Thanks? Was that all he could think to say to her? Dammit, John! He had a lot to think about. John closed his eyes. As he lay there, he tried to block thoughts of Kemmia, and concentrate on what it would take to recover from his horrific ordeal, consider himself worthy of being human again. But, what about those critters on the planet? They had his back! This was downright problematic.

Camaraderie. Companionship. Compassion. I'm on the Cs! Bite me, McKay! Hope. Humor. Back to the Hs. He mused upon them all. Especially hope. Maybe the bottomless pit/oubliette/dungeon that was his own personal hell was more of a Pandora's box. Yeah, maybe that.

He could hold onto hope. The last virtue. He could wrench open the trapdoor, releasing the other virtues, that or keep the trapdoor shut, sealing in the horrors he pitched down there from time to time to rail against him sometimes even during his waking hours. It was a weird two-way street, that was for sure.

Perhaps that's what it meant to be human. To have the ability to choose instead of act merely on instinct. Embrace or kick to the curb. Let 'em in, lock 'em out. Jhh - no, John! - curled up in his infirmary bed, tucking in his arms and legs as protectively as best he could while still connected to machinery by wires and tubes, still forcing himself smaller and rounder and darker than ever.

As he drifted into pain-free slumber, he considered he was maybe glad to be human after all. He'd look up at the other humans another day. Seek solace in their presence. Maybe even tomorrow.

Maybe.

The choice was his.

"I will be right here, John, for when you wake up."

As REM sleep began to kick in, he could see that trapdoor. And there standing upon it was a glowing figure triumphantly wielding the key to a padlock in one hand, and twirling those bantos sticks in the other, like some fierce guardian angel.

Teyla. Wow.

She'd been the one blocking the iron maiden elevator to Hell.

Teyla had his back. Heck, she had his heart and soul. She was pretty much Marion Ravenwood to his Indy.

He smiled to himself, and relaxed into his bed, wriggling all - no, both! - his legs to get comfortable, happy in the knowledge that his friends each in their own way would help him ward off his demons.

John Sheppard had almost forgotten an important thing even the Kemmians had hinted at in a whisper. It was what made him come back to his own kind. It was what might yet save him. It might even save the Kemmians someday.

Love.

oooOOOooo

A/N - aanndd it's a wrap! Happy Halloween 2010! Oct 31 also marks the start of the Celtic end of summer harvest festival of Samhain, (sort of) pronounced 'Savven', btw. Anyway, enjoy the cycle of the seasons, and this wonderful time of year, whatever and however you celebrate. :-D

oooOOOooo


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